Little Lotte's Lullaby
by candelight
Summary: Loneliness. Terror of the night. Melancholy. An unknown persona from the shadows protected a sad little girl in a freezing chapel from it all while finding purpose in his gruesome existence-as well as an adoring pupil. Origin of Erik & Christine's meeting


Little Lotte's Lullaby

Loneliness. Terror of the night. Melancholy. An unknown persona from the shadows protected a sad little girl in a freezing chapel from it all while finding purpose in his gruesome existence-as well as an adoring pupil. Origin story of Christine meeting her 'angel.'

Saw Phantom of the Opera for the first time a few days ago….have watched it four times since, and am absolutely in love. I did find a slight flaw in the masterpiece, however…..they showed Christine hearing her 'musical angel' ever since she was a little girl, and while she insisted that her tutor was kind to her, they didn't show interaction between the young Christine and Erik quite so much. To be honest, I'm a little lost on how Erik saw her as a child….in my account, he was fatherly to her for a number of years, before his interest turned romantic when she was older. I think regardless, he was wildly obsessive and passionate over the one person who genuinely adored him. RaoulxChristine or ErikxChristine. Your call. I may or may not update this story, but please review and tell me what you think!

I'm gonna shut up, now. I don't own POTO, people.

_"See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!  
>O that I were a glove upon that hand,<br>that I might touch that cheek!"  
>- <strong>William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 2.2<strong>_

* * *

><p>Even though his great heartache now threatens to destroy his old, mutilated, and wasted form, and he soon plans to greet merciful Lady Death with open arms after leaving his mother's opal and pearl ring dutifully and lovingly on his lost angel and saint's tomb, he still remembers.<p>

His eyes might now be blind, but he can still see so clearly; so perfectly that fateful November evening when God had again decided to torment him-and leave him with the one treasure he adored more than music when that morbid looking horse and buggy had stopped by the _Opera Populaire's_ ballet dormitories, carrying a pale and spindly little girl clutching at Madame's dark skirts.

Without music, he would have had nothing singing sweetly in his veins, consoling him in his nightmares and his darkest dreams of those wretched years he'd spent cowering in a filthy cell, jeering mobs spitting on him, throwing rotting food at him, bruising and beating his quivering form all for the unforgivable sin of being hideous, and of being denied a mother's affection. After the woman had carefully masked his disfigurement, she had died but a year later, and his revolted father had sold him to a traveling freak show, pocketing the silver pieces he'd made like Judas Iscariot.

And without HER, he would have no heart to begin with, nor any capacity for the tremulous affection that comes from loving another human being!

Sometimes, he wished she hadn't bestowed THAT particular gift on him. It was an agonizing sort of burden, having a human heart. It loved Christine far too dearly for him to constitute himself entirely as her tyrant, and it ached all the more bitterly, considering her love-as his pupil? His daughter? His wife?-was what he had craved.

His first two-and his last-bittersweet kisses with her had been a surge of ballistic, white hot energy that shuddered his frame even in memory, in his silent, unending solitude, when no note would break the silence, nor any genius bring rendition of a nocturnal lullaby.

And once SHE was gone, the fragrant, sweet tune he had composed in her name-the one piece of work he had allowed himself to labor over for forty years-finished, ironically, upon the eve of her demise, had been destroyed. It would hardly have been as devastatingly beautiful as she, who had gone to a heaven to make the other angels plummet out in droves of sheer jealousy over her song.

While he knew he was probably damned, regardless of what he did now, he now couldn't help but to engage in the unforgivable act of hoping. It could do no more harm to him now, now that he truly had nothing left in his repose, so he dreamed of at last being welcomed into a haven where he wouldn't be turned away by lonely and grotesque guise alone.

If only to glimpse her.

That's heaven enough, though he worries that, considering his lot in life, he still had his prize for a number of years as his servant...

Was he pushing his luck by petitioning a silent paradise for her once again?

Perhaps. But it was all he had left to ask for, even as his expert, trembling fingers had tied his own noose rope.

* * *

><p>He had once met-or at the very least, had glimpsed through a grating, many, many years ago. Christine's father, the brilliant, Swedish violinist Daae-had taken his very little girl of three years to visit Madame for an evening at the opera. He'd heard vaguely of Daae, had listened to a fair number of his compositions in the vents underneath the orchestra, and had appreciated the strange, savage and powerful way he had played the cello during a particularly moving rendition of La Belle Riviere. After the performance, Erik had followed Madame and Daae to the woman's office in his crawlspace behind the walls, where the two old acquaintances had had tea before a roaring fire in the hearth, while two little toddlers-Christine and Meg-played with button strings and costume jewelry before it.<p>

The girl's father had been widowed after the child's birth, and while he still ruefully mentioned his yearning for his cheri Victoria to the sympathetic Madame, the violinist had seemed happy enough, though rather pale, had a number of dark circles around his eyes commonly found in musicians, and a hacking cough. Erik remembered dryly thinking that it was certainly lucky the man had not pursued singing as his passion, else he would have been dragged off of the stage with a wooden nook round the neck for generously sharing his germs with the aristocrats.

He had opened his arms out for his little girl who had wandered into his arms clutching a glittery butterfly hairpin. He had bounced her on his knee while Madame had reached for her fosterling Meg, and allowed the child to drink of his cup and kissed her on top of the head and had even, much to the stunned Madame's amusement, offered the two children a ponyback ride on his frail shoulders, laughing good-heartedly when Meg had dug her fingers into his graying hair and withdrew with more than a few strands in her fist.

Erik had waited until Daae had finished honoring Madame with a private violin concerto before he hurriedly stole away to his home. It wasn't as though he could stand any more of the flabbergasting and degrading scene, which left him with an empty feeling in the depths of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, with a slight sense of poignancy that twisted his lopsided mouth into a painful sort of smile.

Only three years later had he seen the child Christine once again, though the roses had faded out of her now much more pallid cheeks, and her eyes, instead of sparkling with joy, had only been large, dark saucers filled with uncertainty, misery, and apprehension.

He had been extremely confused when Madame had lead the child inside to the ballet dormitories, arm wrapped around the little girl, who was dressed in a dark silk frock, and from the way she stumbled over the hem and the way her sleeves poured past her gloved hands, she might as well have been suffocating in it. Madame too was dressed in her fine black dress worn only on Sundays and on the occasional funeral.

It was almost as if…..ah.

His suspicions were later confirmed; Christine Daae's father had indeed passed away. The parentless child had been given to a relative, but the relative-an Aunt, he understood-had squandered the money the child's father had meant to be her inheritance, and run off. And so, according to his will, Christine was left in the care of the violinist's great friend, the ballet instructor Madame. Her father had insisted the child be instructed as any other pupil would be in the art of dance, to be employed by the theater as its humble servant.

And so, it was in this way that Erik had watched the girl being taken to her new room, mouth slightly open like a gaping, dying fish's, even as she curled up into a small ball, not responding to any of Madame's gruff pats on the back and smoothing of her stringy, unkept hair.

Much to his horror, in his stringy, unkept heart, he had felt a twang of pity for her.

* * *

><p>It was perhaps a week later while he tried to work on his <em>Annabel<em>, he wondered over the new girl, daughter of a genius. Had she inherited any of her father's skills at the instruments?

But most likely not; the child had been tried at the trumpet and had been positively dreadful, though her slim, careful fingers looked like just the thing to slide through the strands of a harp. He rarely dropped in a word with Madame, but he wondered if maybe a slim suggestion wouldn't hurt. Christine was a poor dancer, and looked like a sad, homely little ragamuffin in comparison to the enchanting, perfect little pixies spinning and pirouetting delicately in Madame's studio.

Still, he didn't care for the idea of having the daughter of a musical genius thrown out into the cold to live as a pauper in the streets. She would learn, or she would have no place in an operetta, and then, she would be thrown out, wherein thereafter, she must surely die. The little girl was dispirited; she was shy, and would not talk to her fellow classmates under Madame's care often, and picked at the food on her plate, her bones showing through her clothes, and her attempts to copy the elder dancers' graceful moves were earnest, but certainly not graceful. The other ballerinas resembled swans. Christine Daae was more like a flailing duckling with sad eyes, though she most definitely brought...something when her atrocious moves were repeated. It endeared the child to the phantom, and, whatever it was, it protected her from the disdain that he felt for most of the lax performers, like that spoilt little brat primadonna whose parents had all but shoved her into Madame's hands before they had fled out the door.

If the sadness would only go away, she could learn. Tears would stop running down her face at odd, frequent intervals during practice, and during her schooling, at supper, at prayers, and while the girl lay in her bed, pillow pressed over her mouth to stop herself from making a noise. She desperately needed to calm her mind into serenity, otherwise, she had no future here, nor anywhere else for that matter, for she had nothing. She was not a stupid girl-Christine was good at her sums, could read out lines from her book without a stutter, and remembered, after one palm-lashing, that forgetting to make one's bed was unacceptable, and she never made the error again.

But it, of course, was none of his business, though he definitely felt a sense of comradery with the orphaned girl, and recognized her kindness when she let Meg eat off of her plate when one of the theater managers punished her for oversleeping, and took her dinner away. Christine was polite, well-behaved, didn't gossip like many of the other theater children did, and responded to the bullying she received with careless indifference. But she was lonely, for while she faintly knew Meg, the other girl had many friends to be with, and the girl's emotional outbursts were both unnerving and annoying, which kept most at a slight distance.

She confided only in fair Madame occasionally-while the Phantom would creep through the walls, and occasionally stop to listen. One evening, while Madame was attempting to comfort the crying girl, the seven year old had blurted out:

"But I'm not alone! I cannot be! Father promised me when he lay dying that he would send an angel of music after he died! He promised it would take care of me-he just hasn't c-come yet! He promised!"

Her voice had died away to a slight, hoarse murmur. Her eyes were red, though it appeared she'd momentairly cried herself dry.

"He just isn't here, yet. Madame, why doesn't he come, why doesn't he come for me? Father promised."

Stupid girl! As if there were such a thing as God to begin with! He'd laughed on his way down his staircase, on the way to his lonely canal, where the ringing resounded hollowly deep down into the sewers, into the dark.

* * *

><p>Two nights later, during one restless night, he had taken to wandering the hidden corridors, peering into the dark and quiet hallways of his kingdom during the witching hour. It had startled him unduly when he'd seen a little shroud of white and a pair of little bare feet attached to it hurrying down the stone steps, careful not to be heard, creeping down past a slumbering Madame and fellow crew down to the neglected path to the Opera Chapel. He had hurried to keep up with her, even going so far as to following her into the Chapel beneath the floors, wondering what mischief she could be up to at this godforsaken hour.<p>

_Christine...?_

He stared at her from the grating beneath the floor, transfixed as the little girl carefully lit an old taper, immediately dispersing the darkness, which sullenly slunk into the corners like forgotten filth left to fester. Shivering in the late evening chill, the child slowly stood on trembling tiptoe, looked up at the candle illuminating her father's name, and pressed her small hands together, as much as to keep them warm as she did in prayer.

Poor, pitiful, and strange creature!

"Father," Christine murmured, before her large dark eyes started to glitter.

Masked in darkness, the phantom stared at the orbs, quite forgetting to draw breath as the girl bent her head, with so much solemnity that she looked like a stalwart soldier from one of the many operettas he'd seen-and, to his surprise and dismay, Christine's bird-like frame started shaking, and little waterfalls of quicksilver spilled from underneath her dark lashes as she started to whimper, and then, cry.

"Father," she said again, though now her voice was marred with sobs. Her tears turned to cries, and her cries to mournful wailing. Clothed in nothing but her thin nightgown, looking like a ghost.

And reminding him of an ugly, shrunked boy wearing a potato sack mask with makeshift horns tied around the ends...

_Speak to me, oh darling Christine. You are not alone in the lovely dark. _

Immediately, Christine froze, her complexion suddenly deathly pale. With a soft 'Oh!' of surprise, she hurriedly whipped her head around at the chapel doorway, tears still spilling from her eyes.

But there was no one there in the old archway. Startled, the child drew back, turned around the room, and lit another thin candle, peering curiously into the dark shadows, where she could see-and now hear-nothing.

From his safety, Erik's heart was pounding violently against his chest as Christine called out a tentative 'Hello?' Disfigured face paling with fear, and cursing himself tenfold, he slowly withdrew, drawing a shaking hand over his mouth.

What was he doing?

_What was he **doing**?_

He was forsaking his throne of music, where brilliance bloomed and twinkled in the dead of night, his power over the great hall of Music and performance, the sacred, understood rule that box 5 was always to be kept empty…..his salary…

…all for the sake of this insignificant, wailing little _thing_?

Mouth going dry with anxiety, Erik closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths, willing his heart to slow down and silence its beats for but a moment.

No, no, he would not be ruined. Not over the sake of this orphan, much as he pitied her. There was still a way to make this right without revealing his identity-or, more importantly, his hideous face, which would make the child scream and run, and then, he would have to do the unbearable and unthinkable by slaughtering the little lamb.

But he had been granted a perfect persona by the girl's dead father himself. There was yet another cloak of darkness for him to hide under-only it was masked by gentle light and humble intent.

Reassured, he stared wildly at the little girl, forcing himself to keep his breathing under control.

He'd never sang to anyone other than himself before in his entire life. How ironic, that a child was to be his first-perhaps only-audience, and she would remain none the wiser!

He drew breath sharply, as Christine turned back to her candles, looking scared.

_Sweet little child, so foolish, so helpless. _

_Did you believe I had forsaken you?_

With a gasp, Christine dropped the candle she'd been holding, instantly fluttering it into darkness. She stumbled back-effectively knocking the other burning taper to the floor, also snuffing the light away into a gray wisp of smoke in the chilly, all-consuming night.

Landing on the floor, Christine saw stars, but was far too stunned to care. She had been ready to scream, but astonishment had effectively knocked her voice out of her.

After a moment, she blindly stumbled back to her feet, pawing out in the dark, hoping to find a face or a hand.

"Where are you?" she whispered, amazed. "Who are you?"

Erik continued:

_Little angel, let away with your fears. _

_Take chalice of comfort, and quiet your tearrrrrrrs…._

Heart rate picking up like that of a frantic hummingbird's, Christine desperately spun around, and fell to her knees, blindly groping, searching for the direction where the beautiful, quivering richly, tenor voice was singing to her.

But it was coming from _everywhere_-even from beneath her feet! She swallowed, and leaned back, clever ears pricked, gooseflesh littering her skin as she shivered.

"Are…..were you…did my father send you?"

The voice became intoxicating; irresistible, as though it were caressing her by musical throb alone…..

_I am your angel of music…_

_Come to me, angel….._

Crying again, but this time for another reason other than grief, Christine rushed across the ruined chapel floor, and started banging her little fists on the wall, weeping.

"Where are you! Where are you! I want to see you! I want Papa!"

Again, Erik opened his mouth to sing:

_Christine, foolish child, dear child of mine_

_Do you know to whom you are speaking?_

Fearful, Christine drew away from the wall, rubbing her burning eyes, and started fumbling along the wall for the doorknob. But the voice continued on:

_Christine, Christine. _

_Poor little girl alone in the frost,_

_Forsaken, forsaken,_

_Let your shepherd find his lamb loooosssstttt._

_You shall not see me, but I am with you, _

_Your servant of the night. _

_Christine, Christine. _

His lips became tremulous; he had to whisper the gentle refrain after saying her lovely name, which was as sweet as clover honey on the tongue:

_Darling, _he entreated fondly, _do not run from me; do not take flight…_

The genius violinist's daughter drew her arms about herself, though she long stopped feeling the late Autumn chill pressing into her young bones. Oh, no. While her heart was still thudding painfully against her breast, and she was gasping, disbelief gave way to wonder, and then, to joy.

It was Papa. No one else could sound as though they loved her so dearly. His voice had become…different, that was certain, but oh, so much more glorious! Was that the way angels sung in paradise? If so, then she pitied the people on Earth-to think that so many would never, ever hear the breathtaking voice of a cherub! It was enough to inspire you never to be wicked, for who would want to be denied angel song?

"Papa," she said, a faint smile slowly appearing on her startled and starkly features. "Oh, Papa. You _are_ here for me. I can feel you."

And with that, the little girl had passed out.

* * *

><p>She'd catch her death in that chamber-he'd had to move her. Thankfully, she'd stayed peacefully asleep when he'd tugged her into the walls, awkwardly cradling her-he'd never held a child before-and stole away through a hidden flight of stairs to the girls' bedroom. He'd return her via a secret trapdoor in the 134th brick in the first row of them in the room with a small crack in it, and a doorknob installed on his side. He was the master of trickery; of quick and easy access and escape.<p>

Erik soberly looked down at Christine in his arms, slowly boarding up the steps, singing softly as he slowly touched her soft chin with his gloved hand, and then hesitated as he removed his glove, desperate for the contact of another human's flesh. Chapped, but so soft, so rosy, so supple and sweet.

For a mad moment, he fancied whisking her away underground, to his sacred hideout and studio, and never, ever giving her back. But surely his old friend Madame would remember where he was: and besides, it would be a despicable act on the part of one playing protector and angel.

Angel.

He marveled that the naïve child thought of him-a forgotten demon-as a musical angel. It made him breathless; giddy, even.

He crooned a lullaby as he again resumed his journey up the stairs, hoping that she would hear him in her dreams. Somehow, he suspected she would:

_Gentle little girl, I'm still here beside you, _

_And I'll tell you the secrets of true beauty. _

_But now, you must stay, in untroubled slumber._

_Nightmares will not torment your sleep,_

_Knowing that you are my vigil to keep. _

And, with that, he opened the secret door, carefully slid her into her small cot, and crept away, still humming for her sake, until his throat went dry around one in the morning.

* * *

><p>Much to Madame's relief, Christine began to play with the other girls, and started again to eat off her plate, and finish her cup in the evenings after dance practice. She still had her habit of creeping down to the chapel, and-one night, she'd gone to insist that the child go to bed-had heard Christine talking of her day. To no one.<p>

She had stopped beside the door and, as she listened to Christine worry over her clumsy pirouette, had wondered if perhaps she ought to leave the poor girl. Maybe this was her way of coping-talking in the house of God in case her Papa might be listening. Smiling sadly, and making a reminder to place a hot basin of warm bricks under her bed, she'd been ready to retreat, but had heard, to her shock, a magnificent singing voice answer the little girl's sweet voice:

_You must try, try again,_

_You are capable of perfection, dear Christine-_

For a moment, the poor woman stood there, horrified, her heart nearly stopping then and there. Silence came for but a moment, and she hoped that she might have heard things as Christine began singing:

_But it's so tricky, just so hard, I fall off my feet and I sway-_

But no; without a shadow of a doubt left in her, Madame listened to Erik singing in turn, from beyond the wall:

_Try again, now, darling; Rome wasn't built in one day!_

Peering through the crack in the door, Madame resisted the urge to burst into the room, knowing it would only make the young man angry. Blood nearly stopping cold in her veins, she peered through a crack in the door to see her young pupil slowly balance on her toes, awkward and clumsy. While the secret agony of Madame's past encouraged Christine, the little girl slowly started to become more graceful; less tottering, and Madame heard the voice become ragged, pleased, insistent and powerful all at once:

_Yes! Again! More! Faster! Faster! _

And Christine obeyed; she started twirling around faster and faster in a blur, while the man barked orders at her, sounding restless.

_No! Don't stick out your arms like that-you look frozen! Flow, child-the swan's attendants are graceful, immortal, and beautiful-you have the rest of eternity to dance! Get it right!_

And Christine defly obeyed.

Madame silently closed the door, moving her shaking hands over her mouth in horror.

What had she done?

What in the Lord's name had she done? The child fell victim to the genius' crooning, and now...!

She sank to the floor, sick with dread, stomach heaving, she lay her face in shaking eyes.

She knew by now that interfering with the divine intentions of a genius was madness-Erik had no reservations about letting truly awful, ghastly things happen to the ones who crossed him, or whom defied his wishes on how operettas were to be conducted, casted, and performed. An 'accident' here and there; a trip down the stairs, paint all over the backdrop, stagehands knocked out whilst in action, rats and broken glass amongst the face powders and rouges, horses outside the opera house getting spooked by no particular reason and charging away with passengers still inside into windows?

No.

No-if Erik wanted to take on a student, who was she to deny him? It would be safer for all involved-if she discouraged Christine from approaching him, as she so desperately wished she had done so before...!

She had little girls to look after-two of which had no family at all. Christine herself might be in danger. No. She would leave them be.

When she had at last recollected her wind, she had stood up, and slowly made her way back to her chambers, hearing the Phantom's cries of approval when Christine started to sing the choral piece arranged for the little cygnets of the play.

If Erik was determined to make something of her, he would. It dumbfounded her slightly, but she supposed it would be alright. When had Erik ever attempted to approach a human being in this way-with no friendly letter with threat bleeding into the ink, or demand for ransom made to the managers?

And now, a little girl, of all things! She shook her head, still stunned as she climbed to her office, knowing that she needed a glass of port.

Well...God only knew what could come out of such a strange affair. Perhaps, she reasoned blankly, it would be good for them both-Christine seemed happier in his company, and the Phantom hadn't had contact with people on a regular basis, since...well, since many had tried to kill him.

However, the poor instructor couldn't help but feel an ominous sense of premonition that chilled the marrow of her fretful bones.

* * *

><p>And soon, it unfortunately transpired, the woman was correct; the month of December came, as it always must, and while high society flocked to the warm and magnificent opera house in furs as the holiday season approached, the evenings that Christine spent singing and praying in the chapel were at last reaping their reward on the soon to be seven year old girl.<p>

When the Angel of Music would instruct her to sing holiday carols for him in the eventide, Christine would sweetly oblige….and then double up coughing for several minutes. She would recover with a few deep gasps at her tutor's instruction, but just a few lines later, she would start coughing again and again and could not stop coughing. Once, her exasperated Angel had attempted to send her off to bed, but she'd cried and implored and begged and pleaded so much that he eventually gave in.

But, if you note my words, only once. The second time, he'd had enough; announced that her lovely voice was not to be worn down over jagged boulders, and that, as his prize, it needed to be kept safe. He had ordered the crying girl to bed, asking her if she dared defying him, testing his power over her. To his savage pleasure, she HAD left, wiping her eyes the entire way she stumbled off to bed, her eyes glazing over as he sang her to sleep, shivering in her bed beside the drafty windowpane, longing for her angel, but knowing he would not appear in her foster sister's presence.

Dizzy as she was most of the time, she thought she felt his eyes on her, however. He was more omnipotent then God, it seemed-or perhaps even _Pierre Noel, _the French Santa Claus.

Christine became dizzy trying to perform the new dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and was never very hungry come suppertime. While her foster sister worried over her, and now slid into bed with her to help keep her warm, Christine insisted that she was quite well; only pining for holidays past with Papa, but she would be quite herself again as Christmas drew nearer.

But she was wrong.

One night, precisely one week before the holidays, before the girls under Madame's care could leave their ballet slippers near the hearth full of carrots and straw for Pierre Noel and his horse Mistletoe to visit, Christine fainted on her way down the stairs, to her beloved chapel, her face inflamed with fever. Although the child was quite unable to move, someone had placed her in Madame's own bed, where the woman found her that evening, much to her distress.

A doctor was hastily sent for, and the girls had gathered around the sickly Christine, while carolers sung melancholy hymns in the falling snow twinkling in the lamplights.

He had arrived with his large black bag and top hat, and ripped the blankets away from the crying girl, who begged for warmth, although her skin was on fire. Then, it was shuddering cold to the touch, and the doctor had hurriedly wrapped her up again, peering down her throat with a pair of spectacles, rubbing her stomach carefully and listening to her heart faintly beat with his hearing trumpet, and had tried to give her medicine, but it appeared she could not swallow anything between her gasps without gagging it up.

He had only stayed for about ten minutes, gravely explaining to the Madame outside the children's bedroom, that what Mademoiselle Daae needed was not a doctor, but a priest.

To perform her last rites, that was.

The child was deathly ill with what appeared to be consumption, and little could he do for her. He gently told the despairing woman-who had begun to love her as her own daughter-that perhaps the best thing to do was to keep her warm, content, and comfortable…..considering that she would most likely be buried underneath the frost in her father's tomb before Christmas.

He had tipped his hat to her, and wished her a happy Christmas before he had left, bustling to get out of the cold to his carriage.

The girls cut out snowflakes to be hung around the cheerless room, and they draped any few spare blankets that could be found on top of her, though she still shivered. They sang holiday tunes to brighten her spirits, which did work, most of time, when she wasn't more feverish then usual and calling out for her 'angel' to come and keep her warm again. While Madame had to instruct the little girls in performing little acts in holiday productions at the opera, she nursed Christine carefully at her bedside as long as she could, not normally leaving the little girl for her own bed until the candle had burned from a pillar to a short stump.

She would have stayed longer, but there was one who could do more than she, and he would not come for his own little angel until he was positive no one else was around. She too, could feel his gaze, could sometimes feel it burning when he wished she would hurry away so that he could sing comforting lullabies to take the child's mind off her aching throat, pained head, and of the stabbing pains she sometimes felt in her stomach which took her breath away.

Three days after Christine had taken ill, Madame had paused, fixating her hawk-like eyes on the walls around her, scowling slightly.

But then, they had softened, and Madame slowly whispered:

"You owe me a debt of gratitude, _Monsieur_ Phantom," she murmured, before she reached for the door handle. "Repay it by saving this little girl."

-~~*0*~~-

The children could all pray until they died, and could say rosaries over the child until their fingers fell off from handling the beads, but it appeared her life was in _his_ hands. The fool doctor had all but pronounced her already deceased, and the Madame, while reliable, could not offer the sweet consolation the night had to offer the way HE could. It delighted him when Christine would feebly call out for him, her angel, her phantom. It is not at all a bad thing to be wanted in this bleak world, and he relished the thought of being preferred over her little school friends and her foster mother for healing and protection. It made him love her all the more, and more vigorous in his attempts to console her.

While she was delirious, he would slip beside her, hold her hand and rub at her brow soothingly, and keep the fire beside the girl's bed in the fireplace burning until early the next morning, and her breakfast was brought to her. He never quitted her side, and sang to her while she was awake and in her sleep, occasionally, when he was truly bold, folding his arms over her and feeling her faintly snuggle into them, like a dying hatchling seeking its father's warm heartbeat.

Oh, live little bird! Live!

The alternative was horrid, ghastly, unimaginable. No-he would not even think of pondering that outcome-it made his heart threaten to break off its hinges and die. Christine had already admitted that she happily belonged to him, and he would keep her. Death would not take her away from him. He loved her too obsessively, and far too dearly to even consider the notion.

So instead of writing opera, even when inspiration struck his genius, his waking hours were spent tending the little girl when the hired help was out sipping a little gin. If that woman were not the best Madame could afford on such short notice and after pawning one of her brooches, he would have killed the wretched old lady.

He could convince her to eat and drink when no one else could; when she swallowed a bite of biscuit with tears in her eyes, he would murmur over her and praise her, and allow her to fall asleep into dreams of love and approval. He placed his favored roses in a vase beside her bed, and he would bring her her favorite treat-a little mug of warm milk and honey. Where he had gotten it, he wouldn't say, but Christine, whenever she was well enough to think clearly, decided that it didn't matter. While it still hurt to swallow, it felt nice in her stomach, and even nicer when she glanced up one evening, and imagined that there was a dark cloak spun over her body, and her angel was stroking her hair, holding her as gently and as tentatively as though she were something precious. She'd hide her face in what must have been an illusion's shoulder, taking care that the angel didn't see her looking. It would only upset dear Papa, and this felt so nice.

But just as it looked the little girl was ready to begin a slow recover, Christine had a relapse on Christmas Eve. She no longer burned except inside; she was very cold, and when the Phantom had tried to feed her, she had coughed up blood. In his distress, he'd flown to Madame through the walls, dropping by his normal letter, already set with his signature, mortifying stamp.

Much as it saddened the woman, she had sent for a priest, who had offered the child a 'holy wafer'-pah!-but she could not swallow. Madame had had the good sense to draw out all the anxious children before an enraged Erik leapt out at them.

Once the room had emptied, he'd leapt out at the dying girl, and ordered her to live. When she wouldn't respond, he'd become angry-almost ready to slap her for her defiance-and had quickly cooled his hand, and taken several deep breaths.

Music had rescued his own tormented soul. It MUST rescue Christine from the depths of death!

He longed to bring her to the throne of music, where masterpieces were made from an enchanting flurry of melody that would surely heal her, but Christine was too weak to be moved very far, and the journey beside cold, sloshing canal waters would certainly finish her off.

So he held her hands very tightly in his, and had opened his mouth to sing:

_Little Christine, little Christine,_

_Are you there? Can you hear me?_

No response. Frantic, he tried again, allowing his voice to rise.

_Christine. Christine. _

_Come back to me, I implore you_

_Do not turn from me, do not run from me_

_I am here to heal you_

Eyes prickling unfamiliarly, he'd taken another sharp breath:

_The night shall not hurt you, child, do not shed a tear,_

_Quiet your mind, and exhume your fear,_

_It only comes to comfort you, comes to love you and strengthen you,_

_….though it does not love you as I do….._

He drew his fingers through the child's hair, and murmured:

_Christine. Christine. _

_You are stumbling in stony shires,_

_Running barefoot in tempest wires-_

_When I will carry you across the sand-_

_Don't dare shun your master, I have a plan!….._

His voice rose to a powerful, ringing crescendo: It sank down to Earth again softly, like a feather.

_Heal, heal, _

_Surrender your aches and pains and awaken,_

_From me you are not forsaken_

_I will take your woe and make it mine,_

_Leaving all morose behind, _

_Come to me, sweet angel, and you will truly fiiiiiinnnnnndddd…!_

The Phantom gasped, and clung Christine to him, frantic as her labored breathing began to slow. Fury and sorrow both threatened to tear him into pieces.

_That you are never truly forgotten._

_Or left. Behind….._

_Christine. Christine. _

_I have been sent to protect you. _

_Christine. Christine. _

_No one loves you as I do-_

_And no revenant of the light_

_Will tear you from my arms and sight,_

_Child, oh child, _

_Don't turn and flee from me. _

_Blessed lamb, beloved dove, darling angel and love-_

_Return and let me heal you, return, and save me from solitude._

_Come back to your angel, on Earth, special prize,_

_Precious. Wonderful,_ he breathed.

_Apple of Father's eyes. _

_I feel your heartbeat quicken, don't turn and sicken-_

_Run back to me, back to hooommmmeee!_

_Don't go far away, _

_And leave me all..._

_Alone…._

He whispered, before leaning the little girl's head back, gently prying her mouth open, and tipped the contents of a bejeweled little flask down her throat.

Three hours later, on Christmas morning, Christine found herself sitting against her pillows, weak, stunned, but very much alive-and now, somewhat hungry-as she listened to people sing hymns of joy at the cathedral, while it merrily rang brass bells, announcing the hour.

Teary-eyed, she would have joined in, but could do little more than chuckle softly before Madame came back in, took a glance at her, and dropped the bedsheet she'd meant to throw over the dead girl's eyes before dropping to her knees, and praising the holy Virgin for her mercy.


End file.
